


Raising your hand.

by Nekoian



Series: Sewn On [3]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:16:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27638078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nekoian/pseuds/Nekoian
Summary: Northern Ireland's brothers struggle to deal with his behaviour when he's at his worst.
Series: Sewn On [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/43783
Kudos: 13





	1. Winter

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to LostHitsu for doing some checks and editing, it really helped me get the confidence to post this. Hope it's not too short and is somewhat enjoyable. 
> 
> I tried to be as accurate as possible but eventually, the historical research was stopping me getting any work done. Many apologies.

Luxembourg City- Early December 1988

Ireland awakens in his hotel in the best mood a man possibly can when he's only had two hours sleep. After a late plane and a bill for the room that will come out of his own pockets all he really wants to do is sleep. Regardless, Ireland dresses as he forces food into himself. It's hard to shovel a boiled egg down your throat while wrapping a tie around your neck but Ireland manages, feeling more at ease with the elegant looking croissant that scatters crumbs all down his front, they resist a forceful brushing from his hand. After barely trying to get his blouse tucked in Ireland props himself on the edge of the bed, pours hot coffee into a mug and pretends to have forgotten all the materials Germany had woken him at five AM to deliver.

The newspaper that had been sat with his plate is unreadable but all vitally important he's sure. Once he's secure in the knowledge that he cannot work up the fucks required to even attempt reading German he tosses the paper aside; trying to ignore the niggle of pain beginning to form somewhere deep inside his temple. He locks his door behind him, shoving the key deep into his pocket and wishing it was lunchtime if only so he can forget all about the talks of road infrastructure and taxes and a good solid thirty minutes of Germany's ever riveting health and safety.

The hotel is a new one, with a series of meeting rooms and modern amenities that Ireland might indulge in if he has the time and energy to do so. Although he hadn’t packed a swimsuit nor has any desire for a massage he thinks getting his money's worth is a higher priority.

Ireland's located the meeting room by the time he's learned that the fancy pool and fancier massages cost extra and he's soured to the idea even as Luxembourg greets him at the door and questions him extensively on how his room is.

Luxembourg is a difficult soul to dislike, he's friendly and polite even if he's almost always overly primped and polished any time Ireland has seen him. Even in casual get-togethers, he'll have something tied around his collar, from ribbons to ruffles to a bolo tie inlaid with jade and pearls. His smile is as warm as the hand in Ireland's grasp. Luxembourg has a voice so soothing that Ireland can't muster the energy to feel much of anything besides gratitude towards their host even when Luxembourg frowns ever so slightly at crumbs scattered across Irelands brightly coloured tie. 

Germany, on the other hand, is as terse and direct as usual. His hand almost crushing Irelands when they shake and the brief greeting moves directly to the days -long and tedious- business. Listening to Germany's monotone drone makes Ireland's headache begin to worsen until France interrupts with queries over how the projector works, allowing Ireland to escape to his seat. He finds himself beside Belgium and an empty chair assigned to England, although he's suspiciously absent Ireland isn't unhappy for the lack of him. England's whiny voice has the magical power to make all headaches infinitely worse.

"Does your head hurt?" Belgium frowns at him, looking uncharacteristically apologetic, however, she brightens when Ireland nods and waves her concern away with a lazy swat of his hand. 

Ireland grins, "who doesn't get a headache when Germany starts explaining the rota?"

Belgium blurts laughter into her hand then rummages through her bag in search of pain killers, finding nothing but paper, various wrappers for chocolate and a calculator. She makes a speedy dash back to her room to collect her purse, almost bowling poor Luxembourg over in her wake. Belgium's far too energetic for Ireland and he decides to watch France and Germany quarrel over projector slides. 

Even the eventual dimming of the lights and the glass of water and pills supplied to him by Belgium do little to dull the ever-increasing pressure in Irelands head, it pulses in his ears; grinds its way through his skull and makes the small amount of light in the room singe his eyeballs.

That's when England barges into the room, voice shrill even by his own measure and his appearance noticeably rumpled.

"Sorry I'm late, I'll be with you in just a moment if--"

A horrid scream makes the whole room wince, then a garbled noise as England whirls around and appears to pull a child in through the door, a small handful of fine hairs clutched in his tiny balled-up fists.

Ireland's headache breaks like a wave against the shore, scattering pebbles of pain aside and replacing itself with a scorching feeling of repulsion that draws him to his full height in one movement.

Northern Ireland's voice is metallic and unpleasant as his body squirms and wriggles like some alien thing in England's grasp, loud demands to be put down are mixed incoherently with a variety of swears and curses. All are punctuated by Northern Ireland kicking out his feet and driving his fingernails hard enough into England's face to leave pink scratches hatched across his skin.

Wales doesn't look much better when he steps in Ireland's way to stop the distance closing. Ireland hadn't noticed himself walking, nor realised Germany had been demanding he sit down. He refocuses on Wales' face, he looks pale but for the same livid scratches running across various areas of his skin, his hair is a dishevelled flurry of fluff and sweaty knots.

The air is quiet, filling with a sickening atmosphere, that makes Wales back away and spread his hands out defensively as if to protect England and Northern Ireland from the fist Ireland had been raising without noticing.

Germany and Denmark tug Ireland backwards, while France attempts to calm Northern Ireland who merely glares at him with suspicion as he sinks his nails deeper into England's skin.

Ireland hears the smallest bit of England's explanation, "couldn't find Scotland," and "Wales can't handle the meeting alone," while the rest of his words turn to a garble of noise. There are awkward stares from the others gathered in the room which returns to an unhappy calm, allowing England to straighten his tie, remove Northern Ireland's fingers from his mouth and to move to his seat, arms clamped around Northern Ireland's body to keep him still. All while his skin glows with pain and mortification.

"I'm not staying anywhere near that little monster," Ireland says to Germany when urged to sit down, he pulls himself free from their attempts to restrain him should he lose his temper.

"How about we take a break?" Wales takes a soft hold of Irelands sleeve and gives the lightest of tugs. Staying angry at Wales is more difficult than hating Northern Ireland and Ireland can't help softening at the hands that guide him out into the bright lights of the hallway, making his eyes sting and his headache bloom afresh across the top of his skull.

He listens to Wales without hearing him as he's led through unknown halls, watching Wales attempt to put his hair back in order or smile a hopeful smile that pleads for forgiveness which Ireland cannot give him. All these years and Northern Ireland still hurts, a pain Ireland always thinks he might have grown out of yet always ends up feeling fresh and raw when provoked.

The room he finds himself in is small and cramped, the sound of a kettle whistling on a stove and the sight of Prussia with his feet propped on a rickety table as he reads the newspaper and leans back on his worn looking chair. South Italy is casting his eyes over a ream of paper while Wales quietly stirs at a pair of mugs. The red lines on his face are far more pronounced when he presses a mug of scalding hot tea into Irelands grasp.

"We really are sorry," Wales says, as if he's said it a dozen times before and is hoping this time he'll get the response he desires, but Ireland's lips remain unopened until he forces a mouthful of tea down his throat.

Eventually, Wales concedes, returns to his own mug without drinking it and in a flurry of anxiety excuses himself to go and see how England is doing. Ireland's eyes trail lifelessly after until the door gently shuts.

"What's the problem, Éire?" South Italy asks without looking up from his papers, the lack of a response doesn't seem to worry him much, regardless, and Ireland only lets their gazes meet when he's good and ready.

"Brothers a bastard," Ireland admits when he's swallowed a second mouthful of tea, it's cooler now. Almost pleasant.

"They always are, right?" Prussia doesn't lower the paper but chortles to himself as he turns the page.

"I hate Northern Ireland."

South Italy nods, looks back to his papers and appears ready to get back to work until he stands and pats himself down, "you smoke?" an aggravated sigh at Ireland's short silence, "cigarettes? Do you smoke?" South Italy softens slightly when Ireland nods, "then we're going outside to smoke. Does that dumbass Brit think you'll feel better while you're still inside? Fuck wit."

"You mean Wales?"

"Whichever one that was. I don't care." The door gets kicked open loudly enough to startle a pair of maids into walking faster. In a few seconds, South Italy is gone, clearly not interested in asking twice and Ireland follows him. He's suddenly craving a cigarette.

\---

The December air is chilled almost to crispness making Ireland's breath plume a little on every exhale. South Italy produces a white box of cigarettes from his pocket, the letters MS crumpling slightly from his aggressive grip. The top is flipped open and Romano grabs one of them between his perfect teeth; lighting the end with a thin silver lighter that he begins to snap open and closed. Open. Closed.

Ireland accepts a cigarette when the box is thrust at him and allows South Italy to light it up, a faint smell of lighter fluid and heat before the metal slams shut and Ireland gets a calming hit of smoke that warms his lungs. It tastes good and feels better.

"Northern Ireland really makes my head hurt." Ireland scrubs at his forehead, still feeling that pressure refuse to budge, "sometimes I think part of my brain fell out and being around him aggravates it."

"I'm not arguing," South Italy shrugs one thin shoulder, disinterested, "my brother gives me a headache too."

"You were working pretty hard." Ireland remembers vaguely, though South Italy merely shrugs again, the other shoulder this time, "what were you--"

"You should feel glad." South Italy leans back against the wall of the hotel, watching a couple fumble with their keys and drag their fancy luggage out of the boot, "your bastard brothers are the ones who have to keep the little shit."

"Aye, well." Ireland inhales more of the cigarette and focuses on blowing the smoke out in a ring that gets quickly eaten up by the open air and the light breeze that's making South Italy shudder a little and bounce on his feet.

"Do you want to deal with a brat every day?"

"Not really." Ireland glances at South Italy's face, then looks away, "I wish he didn't exist at all."

He expects South Italy to recoil from him slightly, or to chide him, but South Italy only nods in something resembling agreement and remains silent as the light of their cigarettes slowly draw closer to their lips. "You should go see the museum of art. No point going back in there if your heads going to explode."

"I don't know the way." Ireland eyes the front door with its cement planters and well-swept stairs, he feels drawn towards the doors, yet hesitant to go near them, "besides, I'm not exactly the artistic type."

South Italy smirks, tosses his cigarette butt to the ground and grinds his foot into the pavement as if trying to drill a hole right through the earth, "suit yourself, bastard. Get a drink at the bar then."

Ireland's throat feels parched at the very mention and he tamps what's left of the cigarette out with his finger, slipping it behind his ear, "a drink sounds great, like."

"I'm getting back to work. Do what you like." South Italy strides away, pausing to open the door for an old lady and her small white dog, he gives her a courteous bow before marching inside. Ireland wishes he could give her the same courtesy, but he can only smile a little and let his back connect with the wall.

The pain lingers, duller now, but without losing that feeling of pressure. It's like his loathing is trying to expand and split his head open so it can escape. Maybe next time will be better.


	2. Spring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England hunts for a tea pot and some decent cups.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year everyone. Hope this is OK.

London - Late Spring 1989 

The end of the dip pen disappears into the dark ink again, the golden legs of the nib spreading wide then snapping together with a bloated stream of heavy liquid streaming down the inside of the bottle. 

England had started work on this novel some time in the 1930s and so far has only got a page or two into it. Dickens made it all seem far too easy and England saves himself the torment of an empty page by pushing himself up from his chair, admonishing his mouth for being parched and declaring that the third mug of tea will make all the difference. The only response he gets is the loud ticking of the grandfather clock that lives on the banister and the tweet of a few birds having a scuffle with one another somewhere outside the window. 

This small town house has always felt cramped, even lacking the full collection of things he and his brothers once scattered throughout their large country manor with it's winding halls and spacious gardens. Thinking about it makes the house feel so much smaller that England has to pause and move carefully down the stairs lest he overstep and take another tumble. 

He can't hear the usual evidence of Scotland or Wales' presence; maddeningly loud footfalls or the grainy crackle of music, the confined space makes it all too easy to know their exact location at any given moment so losing track of them is as deeply unwelcome as the claustrophobic sense of never being apart. They could be up to any kind of menacing mischief while his back is turned. 

Calling an offer of tea out to his brothers gets no reply while England digs to the back of the vibrantly painted yellow cupboard to find his favourite mug; it's chunky enough to survive the numerous clatters it takes to the tiled floor and has a pleasing burgundy colour that England admires with equal parts fondness and revulsion. Gone are the days of elegant teacups and saucers to match his imported Chinese teapot and delicate silverware. When did he stop using those? 

England hates that he can't remember, decides that the crockery was never out of use and that a hunt for them through the multitude of cabinets and drawers will be worth his time much more than any novel might be. The doors of the cabinets ring the kitchen like a bright yellow line on a map might outline an old kingdom. Wherever his H & R Daniel or Royal Dolton might have vanished to England hasn't the chance to find it before his ears prick to the sound of the radio being fiddled with. There's a rise then a fall of loud static.

Wales must be in one of his moods again, ready to turn the music up in a passive aggressive display of childish displeasure over some small inconvenience or another. England pushes himself straight, ignoring the crack of a knee and the pain of his elbow connecting with the heavy door. England curses and threatens to slam it shut, but stops himself in a show of control that he might praise himself in retrospect, the hinges are feeble and most of them already seem fit to collapse from Scotland's constant mistreatment of them. 

"Wales?" England sighs, readying himself for some teary eyed petulance to make his bruised arm feel so much worse. He's about to tell Wales as much, but the words fizzle out when the only figure in the room turns out to be Northern Ireland, standing on a stack of books and tip toes as his little fingers violently twist at the knob of their new radio, although England clears his throat he goes ignored and has to utter a stern: "North, what you up to?" 

Northern Ireland pauses just long enough to make it clear he's no interest in listening to England's urging, kindly tone and gets back to work on the radio until a voice warbles into coherence. 

"In other news, more trouble in Belfast this morning as an attack leaves three dead and seven injured in yet another---" 

England yanks the plug out and clears his throat; "Now North, what have I told you about damaging the books, they're not for climbing on." 

Northern Ireland's deep green eyes stare at England, some alien lack of compression making them wide and white and a little bloodshot. 

"I want ta know what happened." Northern Ireland's voice is calm and clear and makes the hair on the back of England's neck bristle, it's a tingle of fear that, however slight, still finds its way down his back and into his fingers. 

"Nothing happened North. Nothing you need to worry about." England sets the plug atop the radio where Northern Ireland can't reach it, "you should be reading in your room shouldn't you?" 

"It hurt." Northern Ireland fiddles with the sleeve of his white jumper, pulling his hands free from the saturation of cloth. He holds his hand up in a display that reveals nothing but fresh healthy skin and a few small bruises he's got from falling off one of the bins at the door. They're old bruises, faintly purple and green. Northern Ireland had already claimed they didn't hurt earlier. 

"It didn't, don't be silly." England plucks North off his miniature tower of Dickens, Darwin and Sonnets, "nothing in this house can hurt you. The garden is a different story." 

Northern Ireland glares down at his arm, using his fingers to prod the pale freckled skin, his brows knot with confusion and narrow as they rise back to England's face, "you said that before, but you lied." 

A trickle of sweat slides down England's neck; eye twitching slightly, "I beg your pardon?" 

"You always say people didn't get hurt. You lie." 

"It's not something you need to worry about. It's only for me and your brothers to fret over." England lifts Northern Ireland and feels his hefty weight struggle, his little body radiates an uncanny heat and a smell like warm milk and gunpowder that stirs a metallic taste in England's mouth. Probably just thirsty. He should get back to making that tea. 

"You need to do what I say and stop listening to the news. You're too young to understand." 

"But I--" 

"No buts! When I tell you to do something you do it. Do you understand?" England regrets raising his voice and gets ready to apologise when Northern Ireland's unflinching face twists sourly and his sharp little fingernails get driven into England's face. 

With a yelp England staggers backwards, dropping his brother in an instinctive bid to save his eyes. He can feel those scratches bloom with the fiery itchy ache of grubby fingernails but forces himself to sit up and pulls Northern Ireland into his lap to help subdue tears. 

It takes him a moment to notice the silence that bloats the air, broken only by a few birds and some distant car. 

Northern Ireland glowers at him with dry eyes and scuffed knees, "Don't tell me what to do." Northern Ireland says with a voice that both is and isn't his. It makes England's revulsion heighten enough that he moves away from Northern Ireland and grasp around the floor for a weapon he knows isn't there. 

"What's going on?" Wales' voice snaps the tension with a concerning, musical lilt, his eyes darting between England and Northern Ireland, "England what happened?" 

"Nothing." England scrambles to his feet, "I was about to make us some tea and slipped." 

Wales hides his disbelief expertly and leans down to Northern Ireland, smiling his comforting smile and softening his tone, "are you hurt, brawd?" he sounds like a mother hen, gently clucking at her brood.

Northern Ireland shakes his head, dodges Wales' hands and runs down the hall, his little feet and hands scampering up the stairs and away into some other mischief. England's feet almost carry him off to ensure good behaviour but Wales interrupts by opening his mouth; his words have lost a little of their mothering tone, "Should I go see if--" 

"He's fine. Nothing wrong at all." England moves away from Wales' fingers as they're about to examine the scratches, "have you seen my good tea set?" 

"I think they're in storage." Wales gets to work digging through the cupboards without coaxing and seems to lose interest in the scene, "did we run out of mugs already?" 

"I want to use decent cups and saucers. Not much to ask is it?" 

Wales raises one shoulder and let's out a feeble sigh, "I suppose, but if none are in the house it's difficult, isn't it?" Wales arches a brow at a gravy boat before making the pots and pans inside the cupboard he's investigating clatter loudly. He closes the door and leans his foot against it.

"One of them must be in here!" England fills the kettle and slams it onto the hob. 

"You can't control everything." Wales declares, startling England a little with his bluntness. They regard each other carefully, Wales brushing his fingers through his lank hair while England adjusts the sit of his jumper, which had creased and crumpled. His fingers slide across his face to help soothe the scratches that are still etched in a lingering pain from eyebrow to cheek.

"I controlled half the globe once, I think I can find a piddling tea set!" England ignores Wales' raised hands, expression of concession and the healing traces of fingernails and torn hair that seem so common now,. "I know it's here." he returns to his search, deciding to ignore Wales, who clearly has no faith in England or his good china. 

England knows he can control anything.


End file.
